


Fix You

by SherlockianGirl14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coldplay, Gen, Johnlock (implied), Post-Reichenbach, Regret, Songfic, Suicide, fix you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:36:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianGirl14/pseuds/SherlockianGirl14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, John is a mess. He needs his best friend. There is only one way to get him back.</p><p>Going with him...</p><p> </p><p>If you want to listen to the song it's based on while you read, this is the link you need:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbJuEFs7-kU</p><p>Also... This is sad, okay? So please know what you're getting into when you read it and please try not to kill me!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix You

_When you try your best, but you don't succeed_

 

John sighed, leaning his head against the wall. He'd tried to leave the house that day. Tried... To go back. For Mrs Hudson's sake- he couldn't even imagine how it felts to be her.

Well. He could.

He'd gotten all the way to the corner of the street, in his defence, before he'd yelled at the taxi to turn around. He'd seen the café out of the corner of his eye and that had been enough. Enough for him to break down into tears all over again, in the back of that taxi, with the driver looking a combination of concerned, uncomfortable, and indifferent.

“Sherlock...” he'd muttered through his tears.

_  
When you get what you want, but not what you need _

 

“John?” Ella said, gently. “You came back. Why?”

“I...” John paused. After their last session, he didn't really know. “I wanted to.”

The realization was odd. It probably should have felt like a weight off his shoulders. It didn't. Far from it. He wanted Ella's help simply because he knew, from a medical point of view, that she could help.

But in reality, he didn't feel like she could help him. She wasn't what he needed. She wasn't Sherlock.

_  
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep _

 

John sighed, staring at the clock on his bedside. 03:00. Try as he might, he just couldn't drift off. In fact, he hadn't slept in days. He preferred it that way. When he couldn't sleep, he couldn't dream of Sherlock.

Except that even living here, in this stupid little flat that wasn't home, all alone without him.

Even here, there were shadows of Sherlock everywhere.  _Jeremy Kyle_ on the telly, raw meat in the fridge, looking like one of Sherlock's 'interesting' experiments, the cat the neighbours had that had exactly the shade of eyes that Sherlock had. Used to have. Before...

John sighed and half-rolled out of bed. He slunk his way into the kitchen, clicking the kettle on. The light from it shone as it started boiling the water still inside from earlier. When John had filled the kettle with water for two, still expecting to make Sherlock a cup of tea that would go without being drunk.

The light reminded him of how full of light, of life, Sherlock's eyes had always been. It reminded him of the day all the light was drained out of them. The day he jumping. John roughly unplugged the kettle. The light went out.

_  
Stuck in reverse _

 

He sat on the sofa, his head in his hands. He couldn't forget. He'd like to say that Sherlock wouldn't want him to be like this, but... The man always was an arrogant git. He'd hate being forgotten. 

John still wished he could forget.

It felt like everything was getting worse, not better.

It was.

Because every day that passed was another day without Sherlock. Another day to remember. Another day of wishing Sherlock would just come home, for him. Another day of knowing that he was alone now.  __  
  
And the tears come streaming down your face

 

He didn't go out. He couldn't. Because the tears would start falling at the most ridiculous things- going past a road that he and Sherlock had solved a case down; going food shopping and knowing that he wouldn't be trying to force-feed Sherlock any of it.

So slowly, less and less people tried to visit him. They left him be. In fact, if it wasn't for Greg, he wouldn't have any food in the house, wouldn't have electricity. Greg hardly had enough money to spare, yet he had willingly started paying for John's things. John had the feeling Mycroft gave him the money, but it made him no less ashamed when every week that Greg visited, he was throwing away more and more that had gone off, wiping up more tears each time.

Visitors meant pain. They'd try and talk about Sherlock. Or they'd say something that reminded John of Sherlock.

Or they'd say something that was nothing like Sherlock at all. Those were the worst times, because they reminded John that he wasn't with Sherlock any more. That he never would be.

Those times, John would break down entirely, totally unable to do anything but cry and mouth Sherlock's name over, over.

Those were the worst times.

 

_  
__ When you lose something you can't replace _

 

“Sherlock,” John muttered into the air. His eyes flitted around the room, looking for something that wasn't there. 

He'd had another nightmare.

Usually, when he had bad dreams, he would wake and go to the sitting room. Sherlock was never asleep. They had a quiet agreement that if John woke up and came to sit in the sitting room, Sherlock would play for him, a melody on the violin that calmed his mind.

But then, the dreams were few and far between. Now, they came with every time John slept. And they weren't of war. They were of a phone call, of a man hitting the pavement, of blood and pale skin and unseeing eyes and no pulse.

John walked quietly to his CD player. He switched it on and hit play. Sherlock's violin filled the flat, and John remembered secretly recording Sherlock before the man went away for a week to investigate a case in France for Mycroft.

The sounds were exactly the same. But it couldn't replace Sherlock. Nothing could.

Nothing ever would.

_  
__ When you love someone, but it goes to waste _

 

_ I love you,  _ John thought. It didn't have to mean like that. It never had to with Sherlock. It could mean whatever John was comfortable with.

At least, that's how he imagined it would be. He'd never said it. Sherlock would have understood what John meant when he said it. But nobody else would. And so he'd never voiced the odd thought to anyone aside from himself. And now he couldn't, because if it wasn't Sherlock then it was too little too late.

_I love you, Sherlock Holmes._

_  
__ Could it be worse? _

 

John stopped going to see Ella, then. He'd had an appointment for that day, another for next week. But he just didn't turn up.

At first, Ella had left calls. She turned up at his house, once. He didn't answer the door.

After a while, she left him alone. It was better, that way. That way, John didn't have to explain, relive it again and again. 

That way, it could stay a secret. 

It was better that way.

__  
  
__ Lights will guide you home

 

The only kind of light John saw these days were street lights at 3am, the only time he'd go out. Every few days, he'd take his wallet and go to the 24 Tesco's. His bank was becoming more and more depleted, but even so he'd go. He'd buy a bottle of cheap whiskey, something Greg never bought. 

John thought it was strange how, metaphorically, this sounded good. Sounded like it should be in a song or something. Lights guiding the way. Really, though? Really that light makes everything even more heartbreaking, somehow. 

John takes off his coat and sits down at the table, getting a glass. He doesn't take off the scarf that still smells of Sherlock.

_  
__ And ignite your bones _

 

John hadn't felt alive since the day Sherlock died. It was if John had jumped alongside Sherlock. That would have suited him fine- dying alongside his best friend, jumping holding his hand. But it was too late for that now. 

There were other ways, of course. Other ways to be with Sherlock. 

But John knew he wouldn't. He had to stay strong for Sherlock. He had to fight against those who said that Sherlock was a fake, because he wasn't. And...

Sometimes, he let himself feel as though Sherlock was still alive. As though he was still there. And that thought, when it came, however fleetingly, was the only thing that made him feel alive.

__  
_ And I will try to fix you _ __  


John sighed. He imagined somebody who cared enough to help him, but the only face his mind summoned was Sherlock's. John sighed again, raggedly, and sank into bed.

That was the first time since Sherlock jumped that John didn't dream of That Day.

Instead... His dream was surprisingly beautiful. When he woke up, he was in tears of a different kind.

Sherlock had always been an arrogant git but, in the dream, he wasn't. Somehow, it still seemed like him. He was an angel. He had taken John's hand and whispered something in his ear.

Lying awake, John remembered the words Sherlock had spoken.

 _I know, John, that the damage I have done is irreversible. But come with me and I will_ try _to fix you. I promise._

 

_  
__ And high up above or down below _

 

_ Does it matter, really, if I'm down here or up there with Sherlock?  _ John asked himself.  _ Honestly, I mean.  _ Because he couldn't imagine Sherlock in hell. The man had been an arrogant prick, disrespectful, cold, and yet, somehow, he had a good, pure heart. 

John had never believed in religion, but he believed in heaven and in hell- heaven more so. Not the Bible's version as such, but one where people good at heart went up, and those who were truly evil went down. Moriarty was in hell now. Sherlock was in heaven. That may be the only difference between the two of them, but it was a huge one.

John knew he could answer his own question. It did matter where he was.

He should be with Sherlock.

_  
__ When you're too in love to let it go _

 

John wasn't going to... 

Not just yet. 

He was going to spend one week forcing himself up and out. He didn't want to. The first thing he had to do was go back to the flat. Again.

Tomorrow. Not today. He couldn't do it today.

_  
__ But if you never try you'll never know _

 

Only... Tomorrow became today too quickly and the taxi was about to give up on him ever coming out of the flat. 

He had to try. If not, then he'd have let Sherlock down. He'd promised them both that he'd give himself a week it see if living could be worth it, and the flat was the first stop.

He'd rung ahead to Mrs. Hudson, to tell her he'd be coming. He had to go.

He stepped outside and got in the taxi.

_  
__ Just what you're worth _

 

“Thank you, I really must go now. You know, things to do!” John smiled as realistically as possible. 

“Of course, dear- Come back soon though, won't you?”

John nodded and ducked his way into the taxi. She'd tried to make him feel special, he knew that. She hadn't bought it that he was fine. He didn't care. He didn't feel special or important at all. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry until there was no liquid left inside his body.

He didn't, though.

He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the bottle as the taxi drove off. 

It hadn't been difficult to pilfer the bottle of Cyanide. Really, he was surprised at all the nasty chemicals Sherlock had. 

_ It's just in case you can't cope this week,  _ John reminded himself.  _ You have to survive this week. You promised. _ __  
  
__ Lights will guide you home

 

John stared at the bottle again. Then, he turned the lights out. He fumbled in the dark and put it in the back corner of the cupboard so he didn't have to look at it. 

Lost in the dark, he somehow made his way back to his chair. He pulled out his phone and messaged Lestrade.

_ No need to do the shopping for me this week- I'll manage. It's about time I got on with things. :) _

_  
__ And ignite your bones _

 

John didn't sleep that night. It wasn't that he couldn't. It was that he wouldn't.

He had a way out of this, now. And there was nothing to say he was definitely going to take it.

But.

He was definitely going to take it.

__  
_ And I will try to fix you _ __  


John sat on his sofa just thinking of Sherlock, listening to him play on the CD player, all night.

_Sherlock._

He could have sworn he heard his best friend whisper something to him, then. Something to comfort him.

_Soon, John. I will fix you._

 

_  
__ Tears stream down your face _

 

It was the fifth day of the week. It had been such a long week, and yet such a quick one at the same time.  
John had written a will yesterday.

He'd donated most of his things.

Today, though, he had to do one last thing. He'd decided now. He was going to... Do It. Kill himself. So first, he had to say goodbye to Sherlock.

_  
__ When you lose something you cannot replace _

 

This was a bad idea. Coming here. The graveyard. 

And yet at the same time he felt... Relieved. Calm. Almost happy. Fulfilled.

He patted the grave very gently and make his way to the roadside.

_ See you soon, Sherlock,  _ he muttered.  _ See you so, so soon. _

_  
__ Tears stream down your face _

 

It was in the flat that he allowed himself to mourn for the first time that week. He let his head fall and the tears flow. 

He was saying goodbye and saying hello at the same time.

He went to the cupboard and got the bottle out. 

_ Two more days. _

_  
__ And I... _

 

_ I'm ready  _ now, he thought the next morning.  _ I want to do this. _

_ One more day. _

_ For Sherlock. _

__  
  
__ Tears stream down your face

 

Today was the day he said his goodbyes to the rest of the world. 

He couldn't do it in person. So he did it via text. 

He had the messages drafted ready to send. He'd send them right after he'd locked all the doors and windows, right before he took the poison.

_ I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. This is goodbye from me. I won't be seeing you for a while.  _

_ Greg, you don't need to visit me any more. I'm sorry. _

_ Harry, I know we've had our differences, but good luck. In everything. Goodbye. _

_  
__ I promise you I will learn from my mistakes _

 

_ This time,  _ John thought,  _ in this new life, I'll be a better person. I'm going to learn. I swear by it. It won't end up like this. Besides, it's not a life, it's death, so it can't. But I'm going to do it well. I swear.  _

_ I promise, Sherlock. _

_  
__ Tears stream down your face _

 

It reached the evening and John went about the house locking everything. He'd just drunk his last ever cup of tea. Cried for the last time. Forced a smile just for the sake of the last one. And now it was time to say goodbye for the last time.

_  
__ And I... _

 

Three messages came through on three different phones.  _  
__ I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. This is goodbye from me. I won't be seeing you for a while.  _

_ Greg, you don't need to visit me any more. I'm sorry. _

_ Harry, I know we've had our differences, but good luck. In everything. Goodbye. _

Every recipient knew what it meant.

This was John Watson's goodbye.

 

_  
__ Lights will guide you home _

 

John sighed, holding the bottle in his hand. In the end, he wasn't quite sure how to do this. How much to take. 

Light glinted off the bottle as he raised it to his mouth and poured it all down his throat.

_  
__ And ignite your bones _

 

In the moments before the poison took effect, of which there were not many, John thought about what Sherlock had said to him in that dream.

He could remember it all, word-for-word.

In the end, John couldn't think it all fast enough.

But he tried his best.

_ I know, John, that the damage I have done is irreversible. But come with me. _ _  
_

_ And I will try to fix you. _

 


End file.
